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On the eve of his twenty-ninth birthday, Jake sleeps, and finds himself surrounded by mementos mori and melting clocks.

“This is it?” says Jake. “This is your symbolism? This is the best you could do.”

Like a dog in the cookie jar, the dream freezes and tries to distract him with ladies in knee socks. Jake scowls. “Those aren’t even my fears! I mean, skulls? Really? Have you been borrowing from the collective unconscious again?”

The dream explodes with white doves labelled INNOCENCE.

Meanwhile, a bunch of people dream of headless skeletons, and put it down to anxiety at work.